Skeptics and True Believers
by motley-atypical
Summary: An interpretation of what was going through Grantaire's head during the chapter of Les Mis entitled "Orestes Fasting and Pylades Drunk". Contains major character death and ALL THE ANGST.


So this is basically my interpretation of the Enjolras/Grantaire death scene as it happens in the book. The interpretation focalizes on what's going on through Grantaire's mind when he wakes up and realises that everyone is dead and, because I'm an E/R shipper at heart (stupid Tumblr and stupid George Blagden), it kind of plays to the idea of unrequited love. And there's allusions to Achilles/Patroclus because Greek Mythology.

Les Misérables is the work of Victor Hugo (poor man is probably spinning in his grave) and I will concede right now that the little dialogue was lifted straight from the book (I literally wrote this with my copy of the brick sitting next to me so I could go back to it for reference). It goes without saying that there's major character death and ALL THE ANGST. The (admittedly crappy) title comes from the song of the same name by The Academy Is...

P.S Thinking up a title for this was the most infuriating thing in the world.

* * *

It was the kind of waking when you somehow know that everything has changed.

When he fell asleep – or rather, passed out – everyone had been alive. There had been a kind of buzz in the air about what was to follow. Not excitement, that wasn't quite the right word, nor was it terror at the threat of death. Everyone had been so optimistic. There were barricades all over Paris and the people were finally, _finally _rising up against the monarchists. Things were going to change. Patria would have her time in the sun and be a shining beacon of liberty for the rest of Europe.

Grantaire hadn't believed any of it but it hadn't been the time or place for his cynicism which had been such a burden to the ABC, and thus he swallowed down his criticisms along with the wine, absinthe and stout. The last thing he remembered was a harsh rebuke from Enjolras,

"_Grantaire, you're incapable of believing or thinking or willing or living or dying_," he had said, his lip turned upwards in a scornful sneer. The words, not entirely untrue, had hit close to home and he hadn't the energy to argue more than his protestation of "I believe in _you_". What would it matter what he said? Enjolras despised him and that hurt more than anything. So instead he slept. The others had often joked that in a state of inebriation he could sleep through a war and when he woke it was with the knowledge that this had been the case. The irony might have made him smile.

It hadn't been the noise of the fighting that had awoken him but the deathly silence that had followed. It had roused him, troubled, back into consciousness. He hardly felt the hangover thrumming below his temple. Sunlight escaped into the Corinth from walls marred with bullet holes. He glanced around, sobriety causing lucidity to return to him. His eyes fell on the bodies lying near him. He didn't need further confirmation to realise that the barricade had fallen. They were all dead; Combeferre, the guide who preached for peace over war, Courfeyrac, the centre who was in love with a new woman every other week…

And what of the leader?

He raised his eyes from the floor and his heart leapt into his throat. There stood Enjolras in the opposite corner of the room, alive and beautiful with the sun reflecting in his hair. Even at this moment of death, surrounded by soldiers and covered in dirt and blood, he still looked every part a deity descended from the heights of Mount Olympus. _Apollo_. Twelve men had their muskets pointed at him and he regarded them with his mouth set in a firm line and eyes blazing. He was not showing weakness, not even now.

Time seemed to slow down.

The soldiers didn't notice Grantaire, hidden as he was in the far corner of the room where the light didn't reach him. All he could have done was lower his head again and feign death. The soldiers would kill Enjolras and wouldn't pay any heed to this quiet, dark corner. Grantaire could easily sneak out when they had gone, before others came to clear out the bodies. It would be simple.

And yet…

A life where he walked away from this played out in his head and rather than fill him with a desire to keep on living, it sickened him. The future stretched out into a hopeless eternity and no amount of alcohol would be able to numb him of the pain. He couldn't – he _wouldn't _– live while Enjolras was dead. It was a truth he had known deep down from the second he had first laid eyes on him in the Musain and was one which was now thrown into sharp relief.

Enjolras had said that Grantaire was incapable of believing or thinking and that may have been true, but below the cynicism and apathy he was still capable of loving. He loved Enjolras with all the passion in which Enjolras loved Patria. He was attached to Enjolras as Patroclus was to Achilles and had similarly followed him into war. He would not let him die alone. He had failed the others by not fighting on the barricade with them but this…this he could do. He rose to his feet, unsteady from the previous day's alcohol but determined.

"Long live the Republic!" he called out, breaking the silence. Before that moment the words had always tasted wrong in his mouth; it was like he was committing some horrible blasphemy saying the words that he didn't believe in. He felt that it was better to openly be a hopeless cynic than it was to be a liar. Yet he said those four words now with more conviction than he thought himself possible, "I am one of them!"

He repeated his cry of "Long live the republic!" as he strode forward. He ignored the guards, aware as he was of their muskets and bayonets. His gaze was focussed purely on this apparition of Apollo, on Enjolras, whose expression betrayed almost nothing – but his eyes had softened as he stared back. Grantaire took his stand beside him.

"Might as well kill two birds with one stone," he said to the sergeant in a tone that was almost jesting before he turned to Enjolras and added softly, "Do you permit it?"

Despite everything, he felt like that he had no right to intrude on this moment if Enjolras did not want him to be there. There was no audible reply but Enjolras clasped his hand gently and smiled.

Patroclus had followed Achilles into war but it had been Apollo that had been his downfall. Grantaire would have it no other way.

Bullets rang out.


End file.
